Tonight I've Watched
by Starbuck
Summary: (Takes place around 5th or 6th season) A bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the merging of two separate paths, two separate people already walking side by side.
1. Take This, My Heart

Title: Tonight I've Watched  
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
Genre: MSR/UST, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will   
read this, much less sue me.  
Summary: 1/? (Takes place around 5th or 6th season) A   
bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the   
merging of two separate paths, two separate people   
already walking side by side.  
  
~**~  
  
Chapter One...Take This, My Heart  
  
Scully once asked me if I had ever taken into   
consideration the nutritional value of a sunflower   
seed.  
  
Truthfully, I hadn't. To this day, I don't know what   
the hell sunflower seeds are good for. But I do know   
that one chilly Friday in November, I had felt the   
familiar craving, that addiction I have yet to explain. And   
without Scully's consent, I had pulled into the nearest   
Pantry and unbuckled my seatbelt.  
  
I'd give anything to have kept driving that night.   
We would have made it to the airport   
on time to catch our flight, passing the airborne hours  
in silence. Six coffee cups and a car rental later, our  
lives would have resumed that seemingly monotonous toil  
into which they had fallen so many years before.  
  
And this scar that she now bears, these memories I have yet to  
erase, this acceptance of the reality we had wordlessly denied   
for too many years would have never come to pass.  
  
"Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked frantically,   
glancing at her watch. "We've got forty minutes   
before the plane leaves! There's no time." She had   
given me an evil Scully-glare then, the one where she   
scrunches up her eyebrows and sort of narrows her   
eyes. Scully's eyes were green then. They're always   
green when she's mad.  
  
"I'll be quick." I replied,   
pulling the car door handle and placing my oversized   
feet on the sidewalk. I heard Scully sigh behind me   
as she exited the car from the passenger side. Our   
doors slammed simultaneously, as if on cue. Her   
petite heels clicked against the concrete with each   
step. I glanced in her general vicinity and noticed   
her pulling her coat tightly across her chest to   
shield from the impending draft of wind. I   
instinctively placed my hand on her back and guided   
her through the door.  
  
The tiny bell rang, indicating our entrance. I   
surveyed the small store out of habit. People say I'm   
paranoid. I'm not--just aware.  
  
A short, Mexican cashier stood behind the counter and   
a young mother with her child strolled down the candy   
aisle. The drink refrigerators lined the back wall   
adjacent to the bathrooms, and three rows were stocked   
with various junk food and candy. I grabbed a pack of the   
cheapest brand of sunflower seeds joined Scully at the cash register.   
We waited patiently behind the young   
mother who seemed to be having trouble finding the   
correct change to make her purchase.  
  
Scully glared up at me. Her hair was limp from the   
damp air, but she didn't seem to notice. I tried not   
to realize that not worrying about her appearance   
around me was not exactly a compliment. "You've got   
thirty-seven minutes, Mulder."  
  
She took a swig of the Diet Coke she held. "I   
hope you're prepared to pay for that, ma'am," I   
taunted.  
  
"Actually, I seem to have left my wallet in the car.   
I hope you're prepared to pay for it."  
  
We stepped up to the counter as the young woman left   
and placed our purchases on the surface. I handed the cashier  
a five-dollar bill, and he pressed the change drawer. When it   
refused to open, he cursed in Spanish and headed   
somewhere in a back room to find a key.  
  
I sighed and turned to face the magazine rack. A   
particular cover caught my eye on the bottom row, but I   
decided not pursue it.  
  
We both glanced at the door as the tiny bell rang. A   
mid-twenties, tall man passed the magazine rack   
wearing jeans and a leather jacket. I instinctively   
moved closer to Scully. The young man stepped into line   
behind Scully and me. The two of us did not fail to notice   
the way he nervously shifted from one foot to the   
other as we anticipated the cashier's return.  
  
We weren't disappointed as he appeared moments later   
and produced a small key that succeeded in unlocking   
the cash register. Just as he handed me my change, I   
heard that all-too-familiar click behind my back.  
  
"N-n-nobody move or I'll sh-sh-shoot!" the man   
screamed, pressing the gun firmly into my left   
shoulder. "Just-just gimme all the money in there!   
Just-just give it to me! I'll sh-sh-shoot! I swear ta   
God, I'll kill this man!"  
  
My senses were exceedingly acute at that moment. I   
heard Scully draw in a quick breath alongside me. I   
watched the shaking cashier's hand slowly move toward   
the red button. I felt the cool cylindrical barrel of   
the gun against my shirt, and I could almost taste the fear  
that pervaded the room.  
  
"Hurry up, dammit! Give me the money!" The man thrust   
a small sack at the cashier, who jittered as he   
filled it with all of the cash in the register. "And   
don't push that button! I s-s-swear if you push that   
button, someone's gonna die! S-s-someone's gonna   
die!"  
  
Multiple car doors slammed outside   
the convenience store. With the arrival of the   
police, our assailant began to quiver in sheer   
terror. He closed his eyes and swallowed, mentally   
blocking images of apprehension by the men in blue   
poised outside.  
  
"Look what you did, you-you-you Mexican bastard! I'm   
gonna go to j-j-jail now!" Wincing, the man   
relieved my back of the pressure and aimed his gun at   
the cashier who seemed to be praying. The cashier   
lifted his hands into the air in surrender as he   
closed his eyes and muttered what he believed would   
be his final words. Once they opened again, tears   
streamed down his cheeks in tiny rivers, mixed with   
beads of sweat.  
  
"You don't want to shoot anybody, here," I finally   
said, taking action.  
  
Leather Jacket took aim and continued to point the gun   
at the cashier.   
  
"Just gimme the gun and nobody gets hurt. Nobody gets   
hurt and everyone'll be fine. Just give me the gun," I said   
calmly, keeping my tone monotonous as not to startle him.   
  
Our only hope rested in Scully's hands. He apparently   
didn't take notice of her as she   
gradually unhooked her Colt .32 from its holster.   
  
The cashier finished loading the sack and held it out   
to the man with shaking arms. He stepped   
forward to accept his reward and Scully seized her   
opportunity to strike at the time of a slight   
weakness. She smoothly drew her weapon from its   
holster, a clean motion derived from her years of   
practice. Her sleek motions were mechanical, and  
Leather Jacket staggered back in surprise. The Colt   
was aimed at our assailant's chest before he could   
register the action.   
  
"Look buddy, I need you to listen to me now. You   
listen, or you die. It's very simple."  
  
He drew in quick breaths as he wiped a   
trail of sweat away from his brow.  
  
"You see those men out there? The guys in blue with   
the guns?" She waved her gun in the general direction   
of the policemen waiting patiently in position beyond   
the door. The squad had accepted that the situation   
was under control for the moment and that striking   
could possibly startle an already terrified man into   
overreacting.  
  
"You shoot one of us, they kill you. It's that easy.   
No questions asked. Now, I'm going to present a very   
reasonable solution to the problem we seem to be   
having today. You give me that gun..." Scully paused to   
catch her breath and regain her composure. "And I'll   
see if I can pull some strings to abbreviate your   
sentence."  
  
The gunman shook his head violently. Aware of the gun   
aimed at his chest, he apparently seemed to accept   
the fact that he was no longer in control and had   
nothing left to lose. He glanced towards the door and   
anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the   
other.  
  
"No. No, no, no, no. I g-gotta get outta here. I need   
this money, dammit!" With that, he swerved around and   
aimed the gun directly at the policemen outside the   
door. Normally, I might have chuckled at the   
stupidity of our adversary at this moment. The man's   
sanity was hanging by a thread ready to break   
at the slightest disturbance.  
  
The men in blue outside the door raised their guns at   
the gunman, poised to shoot should he venture any   
closer. One tiny click of a policeman's safety was   
all it took to finally push this disturbed man over   
the edge. The gunman swiveled around and raised the   
gun at Scully.  
  
The next few moments seemed to be happening in slow   
motion, yet passed in the blink of an eye. The raised   
gun fired in a flash of light and a puff of smoke.   
Scully gasped and slowly dropped her weapon to the   
tiled floor. Time seemed to freeze, as did my   
partner. Eyes wide, her hand fell and slowly brushed   
the gaping hole in her sky blue blouse, now being   
soaked with a deep red liquid. Scarlet blood trickled   
over her fingers as her head rose and her eyes slowly   
searched the room to meet mine. Scully then sank to   
her knees.   
  
In an almost surreal state, the room began to spin as   
my thoughts swerved out of control. Flashes of color   
filled my mind; the deep blue of the policemen moving   
in to apprehend the young man, the stained white of   
the tiled floor beneath my feet now being soaked with   
the blood of the woman that meant the world to   
me.   
  
I was at her side in an instant, supporting her back   
as I slowly laid her down upon the tiled floor. Her   
tiny hands remained positioned over the wound, as if   
to shield the pain. One hand propping her head, I   
slowly caressed her cheek and brushed a strand of her   
flaming hair away from her face.   
  
"Mulder," she mumbled, her eyes rolling from side to   
side.   
  
"Don't talk, Scully. Don't talk. It's- It's gonna be   
alright, ok? Just hang in there. Hang in there," I   
replied, resting her head upon the floor to free my   
hand. Glancing around, I noticed the policemen   
calling an ambulance. It would only be a matter of   
time.  
  
I furiously ripped at her blouse, sending buttons   
flying in various directions. The wound was exposed   
amidst the fair skin of her stomach. The blood flow   
was rapid and relentless. I tore the coat from my   
shoulders, pressing it against the wound in an   
attempt to decelerate the flow.   
  
"Come on, stay with me, Scully."  
  
Deep breaths, Mulder, I thought to myself. Inhale and   
exhale. My petty exercises did little to suppress the   
growing emotions that were threatening to erupt   
within me; the sheer anger, fear, and regret gnawed   
at my soul. A brief flash of thought entered my mind,   
a mantra destined to haunt me throughout those long   
hours in the waiting room of the hospital:  
  
--My blood should be spilled upon this floor.--  
  
But there was no time for these contrite sentiments.   
The guilt would have to take second priority at the   
moment. I was clutching a fading life, a dying woman.   
But Scully had been through worse, and I knew she   
would fight to the death should the need arise.   
  
My partner's hand sluggishly lifted above the floor   
and brushed against mine. I grasped it gingerly and   
held her sweaty palm against my cheek. Kissing her   
fingertips, I could feel Scully's hand slowly flex   
with each wave of pain. She was clutching onto her   
precious life, threatening to slip through her   
fingers.   
  
"Mulder," she whispered, her once vigorous face now pale   
and sodden with beads of sweat. Her grip on my hand   
began to slacken with every breath. Scully's eyes on   
the brink of closure, I bowed my head and searched   
for words.  
  
"Scully?" I asked. "Can you hear me?" A squeeze of   
her hand conveyed her positive response. Taking a   
shaky breath for reassurance, I gently leaned forward   
and planted the lightest of kisses upon the tip of   
her nose.   
  
"Come on, Scully," I choked,   
refusing to surrender to the shower of tears threatening   
to stream down my face. I buried my head in her   
shoulder, letting the tears soak her blouse.   
  
I was suddenly aware of my surroundings the moment an   
ambulance appeared outside the Pantry door, screaming   
its siren and sending red flashes of light through   
the dusty glass window. The paramedics were inside   
immediately, gurney in tow.   
  
I raised my head from Scully's blouse and squeezed   
her hand one last time. I smiled and smoothed her   
hair away from her face. A paramedic placed one hand   
upon her back and the other below her knees to lift   
her from the cold floor onto the stretcher.   
  
I walked alongside the stretcher, my oversized   
hand still clutching hers. It was almost perfect how   
our hands fit together, hers so tiny that it almost   
fit into my palm. Such a tiny hand for such a strong   
woman, I thought. Strong enough to hang on to life as   
powerfully as she clutched me.  
  
The wheels rolled through the door and outside onto   
the pavement. As I loaded into the ambulance   
alongside her, the air was flooded with EMS workers   
screaming vital signs and treatment commands.  
  
"Let's get two large bore IV's, lactated ringers.   
Pressure?" the chief medic shouted.  
  
"90 over 60. Airway and breathing established,"   
another replied, pressing an oxygen mask over   
Scully's mouth. He slammed the door as we drove away,   
sirens screaming.   
  
I didn't speak, but simply kept my firm grasp of her   
hand, hoping that my presence was a comfort to her.  
  
It wasn't her time to die. Not yet. And I was going to   
do everything in my power to prevent that from   
happening.  
  
END Ch. 1 


	2. A Pause for Redemption

Title: Tonight I've Watched   
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
Genre: MSR/UST, M Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will   
read this, much less sue me.  
Summary: (see previous)  
  
Chapter Two...A Pause For Redemption  
  
Georgetown Memorial Hospital  
Trauma Unit One  
7:34 P.M.  
  
The hospital doors burst open before us as Scully   
was wheeled into the white-walled hallway. The   
three EMTs, clothed neatly in crisp white scrubs   
that now sported stains of my partner's spilled   
blood, were promptly accompanied by various other   
doctors and emergency room personnel.  
  
"Thirty-five year old Caucasian female, status   
post sucking gunshot wound to the right flank,   
found conscious at the scene; vital signs   
stable?," shouted one EMT to the doctor beside   
him. His superior glanced quickly at Scully's pale   
skin, now slightly turning a shade of blue, and   
sweaty brow as she gasped sharply for air and   
fought to stay awake.  
  
"Look's like we've got a pneumothorax to the right   
lung. I'm gonna need a local anaesthetic and 2   
quarts of o-negative. Let's get her to surgery   
with a chest x-ray immediately."  
  
An Asian nurse to one side recorded vitals and   
treatment commands on a clipboard. She   
exasperatingly glanced at me as I clutched   
Scully's hand and walked briskly alongside the   
gurney.   
  
"Sir, are you the husband?" she asked, pausing   
from her work.  
  
"Uh, no," I replied, turning back to Scully. Her   
shirt and bra, now sodden with crimson fluid, were   
continuing to be soaked as fresh blood drizzled   
from her wound. My partner's head rolled back and   
forth as her eyes began to flutter.  
  
"Heart rate's dropping! This woman needs a chest   
tube right now!" another doctor yelled, turning to   
open the door to the trauma room.  
  
"Sir, you're going to have to leave. The doctors   
need their space, Sir," the Asian nurse shouted as   
she grabbed my arm. I brushed her away and leaned   
closer to Scully, avoiding the hands of the   
doctors and EMTs.   
  
"We're almost there, Scully. Just hold on," I murmured,   
barely audible above the pandemonium in the room. Her   
eyes flickered open briefly and met mine with a   
strong gaze of determination. She started to speak   
and stopped as her eyes widened. Suddenly, she   
began to convulse with wracking coughs. I drew   
back as vomit gushed from her mouth. I winced and   
squeezed her hand as she lay her red-crowned head   
back down upon the stretcher.   
  
Scully's eyes closed. The nurse behind me   
threatened to call security.   
  
"Hang on, Scully," I said, and released her hand.   
The mass of medics wheeled her into the trauma   
room, preparing for surgery. The doors swung shut   
behind them, leaving me alone in the white-walled   
hallway.  
  
I stayed there for a long moment, my gaze not   
fluctuating in the least. Nurses and paramedics   
dashed past and collided with me, not bothering to   
excuse themselves. I'm positive that the sounds of   
the hallway were deafening, yet I heard only the   
unremitting pounding of my heart inside my chest.   
Waiting.  
  
What is waiting but anticipation of the unknown?   
To wait is to sit idly by as the future suddenly   
becomes the present, and eventually the past. We   
watch opportunities pass in the blink of an eye   
and gaze back at them with regret and   
disappointment, wishing somehow that we had   
recognized their significance before it was too   
late. And then we wait once again for the next   
opportunity to present itself, praying that we   
will somehow seize it before it can slip through   
our fingers like so many before.  
  
I myself have learned to accept waiting as as much   
a part of life as any other daily activity. All   
too many years I have spent waiting for the moment   
to come when I shall be truly content. When I   
shall be able to prove to Scully, as well as   
myself, that all of the years we have sent   
searching and fighting have not been spent in   
vain. When the Truth will be unveiled before her   
incredulous eyes and she will be no longer capable   
of denying the things she has seen.  
  
And so I waited.  
  
I waited for hours that night, though it seemed   
like days or even years. My unwavering eyes were   
focused on the clock hanging high above the   
hospital waiting room doorway. With each second   
that passed, I felt the pain of my suffering   
partner only two rooms away.   
  
--Tick-tock, tick-tock.--  
  
All that mattered was time now. The seconds turned   
to minutes, and the minutes to hours. It was as if   
my life revolved around those three rotating   
hands, spinning around and around. Peripheral   
vision ceased to exist, and I was only   
semiconsciously aware of my surroundings. I remained   
with my elbows on my knees and hands clutching my   
ruined jacket.   
  
Parts of the jacket now matched my hands, stained   
with the scarlet blood of my partner. The jacket   
had been used in attempts to stop the bleeding.   
But it hadn't stopped, and Scully lay on an   
operating table at the hands of doctors hopefully   
doing anything and everything possible to help her   
hang on to life.  
  
As I waited there for those long hours, I was   
forced to trust those doctors treating my partner.   
I was not accustomed to placing such faith in   
anyone, especially concerning Scully. Would they   
be doing everything in their power to save the   
life of the only woman I trusted?  
  
The gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder brought   
me back into reality. I turned to face the Asian   
nurse I had encountered before.   
  
"Hmm?" I asked, placing my face into the palms of   
my hands and rubbing my sore eyes. She smiled and   
revealed too-white-to-be-natural teeth against her   
almond colored skin.   
  
"We're going to need you to fill these out,   
please, Sir," she said, presenting a short stack   
of forms attached to a clipboard. "Who's the next   
of kin?"  
  
I was then struck with a pang of emotion.   
Realization, mixed with guilt and fear. Scully's   
mother would soon arrive. Would she, could she,   
possibly forgive me for the pain I had failed to   
keep her daughter from being forced to endure? Did   
Maggie Scully have enough compassion inside her   
not to blame me for what her daughter was going   
through?   
  
"Her mother.... I know where she can be reached,"   
I replied. The nurse nodded and drew a notepad   
from the pocket of her fuchsia scrubs. She jotted   
down the telephone number I recited and left to   
call from the front desk.  
  
And so I passed the next hour of waiting by   
filling out form after form concerning everything   
from medical insurance to allergies. Occupying my   
time didn't seem to assist the minutes in passing   
any faster, though. No word came from the trauma   
room.  
  
Once I had completed the forms, I arose and walked   
to the counter to hand the forms in to the nurse.   
My feet were lead and it took every ounce of   
strength I possessed to will them into moving, but   
I eventually reached the counter. She thanked me   
and resumed the telephone conversation she had   
been previously involved in. I turned and headed   
back to my seat.  
  
As I slowly trudged forward, I paused and glanced   
ahead at the doors to the trauma room swinging   
open.  
  
First to pass through was an EMT, backing into the   
door to keep it from closing upon the gurney he   
towed behind him. As he passed into the hallway,   
the contents of his stretcher were revealed.   
  
A living, breathing, Dana Katherine Scully covered   
in her own blood. Her delicate eyelids were closed   
and her lips were ashen, almost gray.   
  
Scully had fought death, once again, as it   
stared her straight in the eyes, threatening to   
swallow her entire body and soul.   
  
And, once again, she had won.  
I didn't leave her side once that night. Not for   
coffee, not to sleep. Though the doctor had   
reassured me of her stable condition following   
his explanation of her treatment and prognosis,   
I clung to my habitual paranoia. I had come so close to  
losing her only hours ago that I felt to leave her would   
be risking losing her again. Somehow, I knew that   
she needed my presence as much as I needed hers.  
  
The ER doctor that had performed Scully's   
operation informed me that she had endured a   
pneumothorax to the right lung as a result of the   
bullet fired. It was a simple procedure, he had   
explained, that included anesthetizing her and   
inserting a chest tube to allow the collapsed lung   
to reinflate. It would only be a matter of time   
before she awoke.  
  
And so the doctors came and went, as did the   
nurses, attaching IV's and taking notes on her   
vitals and such. I remained seated in a cushioned   
chair at her bedside, almost completely oblivious   
of my surroundings; therefore, I barely realized   
when I was left alone in room number 423 of the   
Intensive Care Unit with my partner, who remained   
fast asleep.   
  
The monotonous beeping of her heart monitor kept   
the rhythm of her steady breathing. Breathing. My   
Scully was breathing, and I was somehow thanking a   
God I barely believed in. Could He possibly   
understand what this woman who lay sleeping before   
me meant to me, to my life? Was it some form of   
divine intervention that had delivered her  
from the shadow of death that loomed so near not too   
long before?  
  
I could only contemplate these questions and many   
others as I waited those grueling hours for   
Scully's eyes to flutter open and for her to ask   
me, 'Mulder? Where am I?' But, until that moment, I   
simply gazed at her, absorbing her every motion.  
  
She was dressed in a pale blue hospital gown,   
resembling the hue of the blouse I had ruined as I   
tore it open to reveal her wound. The hospital   
sheets and blanket were laid gingerly over her   
chest. I watched them slightly rise and fall with   
each breath.  
  
I knew that Scully didn't want me to see her like   
this, drugged and unconscious, marred and   
helpless. Had I ever seen her face so pale? I   
couldn't recall. But, somehow, her expression was   
not one of fear? It was more of an expression of   
satisfaction. Scully had taken the bullet for her   
partner, a duty every member of the Bureau was   
trained and expected to fulfill.   
  
By then, the tiny thought I had been neglecting   
like an old electric bill suddenly struck, sending   
chills along my spine. Scully shouldn't be lying   
here on this bed.  
  
I should have been the one to take that bullet.  
  
Fox Mulder, Oxford degree in psychology. Was I not   
the one renowned for my expertise on infiltrating   
the minds of criminals? How many times before had   
I realized the notions of the villain at hand and   
dealt accordingly, and with haste? Why, God, why   
had I allowed Scully to step in and control the   
situation?   
  
Scully, my constant, my companion, the only one   
that understands. If only I had pushed her back,   
had stepped before her and taken that bullet. I   
would be lying on this stiff hospital bed. I would   
be the one suffering and regurgitating and being   
drugged and undergoing operations?  
  
Silence.  
  
Beep…beep...beep..beep…  
  
Dr. Barrows to the ER, Dr. Barrows to the ER  
  
Beep…beep…beep…beep…  
  
Scully's heart monitor kept a steady rhythm.   
  
I became acutely aware of the soft clicking of a   
closing door behind me.  
  
"Fox?"  
  
Swiveling my head to face the direction of the   
soothing, familiar voice, I offered a gracious   
grin to Maggie Scully and slowly stood to greet   
her. She crossed the few feet separating us and   
wrapped her arms around my chest in a warm   
embrace. Her head barely reached my chin, and I   
could feel her shivering despite the woolen   
sweater she adorned. Maggie's hair smelled of   
rosemary and lavender. It smelled like…home.  
  
God, how she reminded me of her daughter in ways I   
could never begin to describe.   
  
"Oh, Fox. The doctor said she was going to be   
okay. Is she going to be okay, Fox?" she asked,   
not bothering to mask her swelled cheeks and moist   
eyes as she drew away from me and faced Scully.  
  
I didn't speak. I searched for words, but couldn't   
determine the right ones, so silence seemed   
sufficient for the moment. Maggie approached the   
bedside with trepidation and took in the full   
scope of her wounded daughter.  
  
Extending her trembling hand, she reached for   
Scully's ashen face and ran a finger along her   
cheek. She slowly stroked her only daughter's   
smooth skin with a mother's touch. I turned away   
as I noticed a stray tear drop to the sheet below.   
  
"Who did this, Fox? Why would someone want to hurt   
her?"  
  
She fell with resignation to the chair that I had   
occupied not minutes ago, her head bowed. We   
mutually understood that neither of these   
questions merited answered, at least at the   
moment. She did not need answers. She was not   
searching to place the blame.   
  
Hence followed a silence during which I came to   
realize that she was praying.  
  
I stepped alongside her chair and found her hand   
that rested upon her lap. She grasped it with the   
strength only a Scully could possess at a time   
like this. She did not lift her eyes, although I   
felt she could sense mine close.  
  
And so, I began to pray.  
END Chapter 2 


	3. He Called Me Starbuck

"Call me Ishmael," I read aloud.   
  
Scully didn't stir, as I had anticipated, so I continued to read.  
  
"Some years ago-never mind how long precisely-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world."  
  
I glanced up from the pages of Moby Dick to linger on the image of my sleeping partner. I silently closed the book, the distinguished scent of aged paper wafting through the air. It was quickly replaced by the smell of a hospital, metallic and medical, with a twist of bleach.   
  
It was Tuesday morning and the sky was expressing its lament. Not pouring or drizzling, but a steady fall that had lasted most of the night. The room was silent aside from the patter of the gentle shower on the windowsill.   
  
I stood and watched her sleep, one hand in the pocket of the same jeans, which I hadn't changed for days and the other grasping the closed novel. Its threadbare cover had faded to a shade of pale green, its feeble binding barely securing its yellowed pages. The tattered volume radiated childhood memories with the turn of each leaf, and somehow I could envision Starbuck cuddled in the lap of her Ahab, the glow of a winter's fire pervading the living room, simply from holding it.   
  
I suppose that my ultimate intention was to bring Scully home to this place, home to the days of her innocent youth, while she slept. When nothing else mattered but finishing homework in time for The Brady Bunch, and there was nothing to fear late at night beyond the fantastic tales of her older brother's imagination.   
  
I laid the book upon her bedside table. Seating myself in the chair, I once again became immersed in the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Each exhalation fluttered a lock of crimson hair away from the smooth curves of her cheek and back again. Scully's eyelids seemed to dance as she dreamed, sporadically trembling in the slightest.   
  
Please be dreaming of someplace far, far away from here.  
  
I leaned forward, the chair faintly protesting, and delicately brushed the stray wisp away from her face. I lingered for a moment, breathing silently as not to awaken her.   
  
Hey, Scully. Everything's fine now. There's nothing to be afraid of. You're safe, we're both safe, so you can wake up. I'm right here, Scully.   
  
I returned to the chair, resting my elbows on my knees and massaging my temples with my fingertips. The motions required energy, something of which I significantly lacked at the moment. My body cried and pleaded for sleep as my physical exhaustion combined with my mental fatigue. Somehow I knew, though, that I could never allow myself to sleep until Scully awoke.   
  
Scully rarely lets me down.  
  
The sheets before me rustled slightly, indicating a movement from within. I instantly lifted my gaze to observe my partner's eyes feebly flutter open and blink. I met her weary gaze with a smile.   
  
Her pale lips parted in a tiny yawn before smiling in return.   
  
Something inside me melted, beginning deep within my chest and spreading to the tips of my fingers and toes. My heart refused to beat, a brief cessation ensued by a rapid thudding as it quickly picked up pace. I realized I had been holding my breath and slowly released it as Scully wanly whispered,  
  
"I had you bigtime, Mulder."  
  
~**~  
  
As the elevator doors parted before me with a quiet chime, the silence of the elevator was invaded by the cacophony of the second floor of the hospital. Not a single glance was passed my way as I stepped out into the busy hallway, narrowly avoiding the path of a stretcher being rushed past me through the open doors. I slipped one of the steaming paper cups I was holding into my overcoat as I maneuvered my way to the third door on the left.  
  
Slightly pushing aside the curtain, I glanced through the window.  
  
Scully was sitting up in bed, her head turned in the direction of the window opposite the door.   
  
Not bothering to knock in an attempt to remain unnoticed by the doctor swiftly approaching, I cracked the door and slipped into the room, turning to click it softly behind me.   
  
"Mulder, I'd complain about the fact that you're not carrying any flowers, but caffeine withdrawal is hell."  
  
I smiled and turned to face her. Her eyebrow was raised, her shoulders were back, but I felt a sting as I noticed the way she was slightly hunched to the left, favoring the bandage I knew lay beneath her gown.   
  
"I assumed as much," I said, crossing the room to hand her the cup of coffee beneath my coat. She closed her eyes and savored the aroma for a moment before sipping it and sighing. Her shoulders sank, her face relaxed, and she whispered,  
  
"Now I can die a happy woman."  
  
She smiled and opened her eyes, meeting mine as I sipped my own cup.   
  
"You're easy to please, Scully," I replied. We remained silent for a moment, and I turned to remove my jacket and pull a chair beside her bed, lowering myself into it and relaxing against the back.  
  
She nodded and allowed her gaze to wander in the direction of the window. The glow of the overhead lights cast a pallid shadow on her face and cheeks, now so shrunken and faint. I couldn't tear my eyes from protrusion of her jawbone and contrast of her pale skin against the sky blue hospital gown loosely draped across her shoulders.   
  
She kept her countenance strong, her demeanor resilient, but she couldn't hide the effects of her substantial blood loss and resultant physical decline and weakness. Were I to mention anything, though, her harsh glare and pert "Mulder, I can take care of myself" would only drive her farther away.  
  
She already seemed so distant.   
  
"I thought I was stronger than this, Mulder," she said, her eyes remaining fixed upon the splash of the raindrops on the windowsill. She seemed to have lost interest in the steaming coffee she continued to clutch.  
  
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, awaiting clarification.   
  
"Mulder, I've always relied upon the strength of my beliefs, drawn upon my faith as a source of comfort, a constant in this dynamic life I've chosen," she began, her eyes focused on the whitewashed sheets below her. She fingered the hem of the covers, toying with a loose thread.  
  
"My faith in you, in myself, and in God."  
  
I swallowed silently.  
  
"And you've kept that faith, Scully. More assiduously than could have possibly been expected, considering your experiences."  
  
She absently reached for the base of her neck, fingering the tiny cross that lay upon the pastel skin. Pausing for a moment, she turned in my direction and locked her gaze with mine.  
  
"Mulder, while I was lying on that floor, watching my blood spread across the tiles, and you were speaking to me...you were talking...Mulder, I was facing death, staring it straight in the eye, and...I was terrified."  
  
She regained her composure, suppressing the tears threatening to fall upon her cheeks.  
  
"I thought I was stronger than this, Mulder. I've faced death before.   
  
Mulder, I can't even remember if I was thinking about God."  
  
I let her continue, her voice progressively rising.  
  
"Suppose I hadn't survived, Mulder. Suppose my life had slipped away as easily as the blood from this wound, and the last thing God heard before my soul left this earth was,  
  
I don't want to die.  
  
Damn it, Mulder, what kind of faith is that?"  
  
I didn't speak but let the tears already beginning to drop trickle down her cheeks. She inhaled sharply and turned away, whispering,  
  
"What kind of faith is that?"  
  
The rain continued to fall upon the window. The wind from the impending storm gently shook the pane, scattering the drops in various directions. I remained silent for a moment before standing and approaching the bed to touch her fingers, raising them gently from the sheet. Not allowing my eyes to wander from them, I murmured,  
  
"To me, it's the strongest kind of faith. The kind of faith unwillingly to yield."  
  
She didn't turn.  
  
I let her fingers fall back upon the sheets.  
  
Padding softly across the floor, I pulled my coat from the chair and headed for the door. Grasping the handle, I turned to meet her watery gaze for a moment. Her eyes were blue that day.  
  
I opened the door silently and left her room, draping the coat across my shoulders to fight the quiet rain.  
  
END Ch. 3 


	4. Four Weeks

Title: Tonight I've Watched  
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
Genre: MSR/UST, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will   
read this, much less sue me.  
Summary: 4/? (Takes place around 5th or 6th season) A   
bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the   
merging of two separate paths, two separate people   
already walking side by side.  
  
After fumbling in my pockets for the keys, I reached for the knob of the office door, only to realize that it had already been opened. Puzzled, I stepped into the office. A welcome surge of familiarity flooded my thoughts as I smiled at the woman rearranging the papers and files scattered across my desk.  
  
"I thought you wouldn't be back until Monday, Scully," I said as I stripped my coat and turned to hang it on the back of the door. Facing her again, I was answered with a simple smile and lifting of her eyebrows, an unspoken statement of, What did you expect?  
  
"Jesus, Mulder. I'm gone for a month and you succeed in reconstructing Hiroshima in the basement," she muttered, standing slowly to replace some files in the cabinets behind the desk.   
  
"You mean you weren't invited to the Bureau Basement Beer Bash last week, Scully?"   
  
I crossed my arms and smirked, leaning against the desk as she turned, glaring, and sat back down. I watched her finish reorganizing the desk, trying not to flinch as I noticed her strained efforts to reach for the pencil cup. She didn't grimace or tremble as her side pressed against the desk, the pain searing through her chest.  
  
But I did.  
  
I reached across the desk and grabbed the cup for her, placing it in her hand. She coolly accepted it, her eyes focused forward, away from my gaze. Her jaw was clenched; she swallowed and raised her chin.   
  
I let go of the cup and pushed away from desk.  
  
"Coffee, Scully?" I asked, heading for the door.   
  
"No, thanks," she murmured.  
  
Entering the darkened hallway, I absently began to unbutton and roll my sleeves as I approached the steaming coffee machine. After pouring myself a steaming Styrofoam cup, I replaced the coffee pot and leaned against the wall.  
  
I closed my eyes and breathed in the steam for a moment. That definitely hadn't gone well, I thought.   
  
She had awoken from her coma only three weeks earlier and had left the hospital a week after that. Two weeks at home hadn't seemed to me enough time for a full recovery, but Scully had insisted on returning to work as soon as her body would allow her, if not before.  
  
Her mother had stayed with her during the first week of her release, despite her insistence that she was competent to care for herself. Her inability to walk, though, precluded any chance of living alone until she was no longer bound to a wheelchair.   
  
I brought her dinner every other night after her mother left. Her restlessness was obvious, and her boredom even more so. Oddly enough, she had taken to watching Oprah...  
  
Forced to work alone in the office for the first time in years, I had found myself uninterested and accomplished virtually zero. More than once, I needed a second opinion on a prospective case but hesitated to call Scully on any matter related to work, wishing to keep her from any unnecessary anxiety. She had been shot the last time she tried to help me.  
  
The days had been monotonous, the hours long, and the silence unbearable. Silence brought thought, thought brought memories, memories brought guilt. Little things would trigger my mind-the extra pair of hose in the bottom desk drawer that Scully didn't think I knew was there, an old receipt from a take-out lunch months before, my key to Scully's apartment...   
  
She wasn't there because she had taken that bullet for me.   
  
The phone rang down the hall and silenced as Scully picked up the receiver. I began to walk back into the office, rolling my other sleeve in the process. Turning into the doorway, I stood listening to Scully talk.  
  
"Okay, we'll be right there," she said, staring at me. "Yeah, okay, thanks."  
  
She hung up the receiver and stood, straightening her jacket.   
  
"That was Skinner's secretary."  
  
I nodded.  
  
She walked around the desk, and I grabbed my coat from the door, tossing the remainder of my coffee in the trashcan. I followed her out of the office and down the hall, realizing how much I had missed the sound of her heels clicking on the tiles beneath my feet.   
  
We didn't speak on the elevator or in the crowded hallway leading to Skinner's office. Scully kept her cool composure, meeting the stare of other agents with an aloof gaze mastered by years of isolation in a bottom-level office of the Bureau. People knew what had happened; yet not one said a word.  
  
I unconsciously guided her into the anteroom, surprised at her flinch in response. Glancing downward, I watched as she kept her eyes focused ahead and continued into the room. I sighed quietly and followed. Maybe four weeks had been too long...  
  
"He's waiting for you, agents," the blonde secretary said without looking up from the computer screen. I noted Scully's slow intake of breath as she paused to rest her hand on the door. Her eyes floated downward to focus on the handle, and she lowered her head slightly.   
  
Concerned, I touched her arm cautiously. "You okay, Scully?"  
  
She rubbed her hand across her forehead for a moment before answering, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."  
  
I looked away and clenched my jaw as I pushed the door open before us.   
  
Skinner stood as we entered the office, leaning across his desk to shake Scully's hand. She smiled forcibly and took her seat beside me. As if on cue, we crossed our legs simultaneously in opposite directions. She didn't seem to notice, and I never had before. Four weeks had been too long...  
  
"Agent Scully, it's great to see you on your feet again, although you're not technically supposed to be here until Monday."  
  
Skinner raised his eyebrows at her and glanced at me.   
  
He isn't actually accusing me of talking her into this, is he? I thought, glaring back but brushing it off. He rested his arms on the desk, folding his hands. Scanning the counter, I noted an unusual profusion of paper and files beneath him, too many for a typical case.   
  
"Anyway, I'm sure you're both aware of the Bureau's recent loss in Violent Crimes," he began, awaiting my customary interjection.  
  
"Hudson Barrows, sixty-eight. Lung cancer." I glanced at Scully and Skinner, respectively, and continued. "He was known as the division's most experienced and valuable profiler since Robert Ressler and facilitated the capture of over two hundred serial murderers and rapists. I worked under him for a year after I left the Academy."  
  
Skinner nodded. "Needless to say, there's been much debate as to his successor."  
  
I froze, and sensed Scully's apprehension as she recrossed her legs.  
  
"The head of the VC has been considering the leaders of each unit Barrows controlled, but it may be weeks before a final decision is made. Valuable weeks," he said, though I knew that he meant "expensive weeks", and I was fully aware of the direction in which he was headed. My suspicions were confirmed as he met my eyes and continued.  
  
"Considering your background, Agent Mulder, and Agent Scully's temporary incapacity to enter the field, you've been elected the temporary candidate for replacement. For the next four weeks, you'll be filling Barrows' position in the Violent Crimes Unit."  
  
Without pausing in reaction to my fuming, "Sir-," he turned to Scully.  
  
"Scully, you'll be temporarily reassigned to the Pathology Lab for the duration of these four weeks. You'll be working under a Dr..."   
  
He flipped through a small stack of papers on the desk before locating a packet. Glancing at the top sheet, he stood and handed it to Scully.  
  
"Randall Miller. He'll be contacting you shortly."  
  
Coolly, Scully pursed her lips and accepted the papers without glancing at them. I interpreted this reaction as a signal that she shared my fury at this outrageous reassignment, and I turning my head to confirm this with our notorious unspoken communication.  
  
I'm positive that she saw me turn, that she felt my eyes watching her, waiting for her to glance back as usual, her silent expression of They can't do this, in response to my Can I fight back now?  
  
But she didn't turn.  
  
Her eyes remained focused on Skinner, ignoring my silent screams.  
  
I bit my cheek and focused my own glare on the Assistant Director, his hands now neatly crossed once again atop his desk. I didn't need her permission.  
  
"Sir, I find it difficult to believe that you've found someone qualified to continue our work on the X-Files during our absence," I snapped.   
  
Skinner glanced at his hands. "The X-Files will be temporarily shut down until a permanent replacement for Barrows is found."  
  
Instinctively, my furious eyes shot to meet my partners' beside me. She inhaled deeply for a moment while focusing ahead, and I almost thought she wouldn't turn.  
  
Slowly, though, she rolled her eyes over at me, tilting her head in my direction. *Go ahead.* she told me, without saying a word. I almost smiled.  
  
"Temporarily shut down? What kind of bullshit is that, Sir?" I said, my voice a tad beyond the social norm.   
  
"Mulder, you don't actually think I'm the one doing this, do you?" he retorted, his face beginning to turn slightly pink.  
  
"I think you're the one not doing anything to stop it!" I yelled, rising to my feet. "How many times are they gonna taunt us with this, Sir? Dammit, tell me why they haven't just shut us down for good!"  
  
Shooting out of his chair and pulling his glasses off of his face, Skinner clenched his fist and roared, "Who the hell do you think fought to make this temporary, Agent Mulder?"   
  
We stared silently at one another for a moment, Skinner's face returning to normal hue and my quickened breaths subsiding. They had thrown this at us before, and they'd do it again. But I had yet to concede to their seemingly invincible methods of manipulation.  
  
If this went higher than the office in which I stood, then higher I intended to fight.  
  
I opened my mouth to inform the assistant director of my intentions, to let him know that we meant to pull whatever strings necessary to effect the reinstatement of the office I had struggled so long to establish, but I was stopped by a gentle tug on the sleeve of my jacket.  
  
Turning my head downward to face Scully, I stared angrily at her imploring eyes. She was telling me to sit down.   
  
"Not here," she mouthed silently, begging me to comply.   
  
I wouldn't be fighting this alone.  
  
I lowered myself slowly into the cushioned chair. Skinner remained standing, but searched his desk for another packet of papers.  
  
"You'll report to VC tomorrow morning," he said, handing me the papers. "You're dismissed."  
  
Muttering the requisite "Thank you, Sir," we rose and walked slowly toward the door. As Scully reached for the handle, Skinner spoke.  
  
"Don't stop swimming, Agent Mulder."  
  
I turned to meet his eyes, pausing for a moment to watch him sit back down, before following Scully out the door.   
  
We didn't speak on the walk to the elevator, my rush of adrenaline thudding in my ears. Scully walked a step ahead and to the side, per usual, and weaved us a path between the oncoming rush of agents. The elevator emptied as it arrived, a blur of black suits and briefcases, cell-phones and ties.   
  
We boarded alone, and Scully pressed the lowest button mechanically before stepping back to cross her arms. I waited until the doors had closed with a chime before I spoke.  
  
"I could've used your support back there."  
  
She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. "It wasn't the place, Mulder. Skinner said it himself-it goes much higher than this."   
  
I faced the doors, bowing my head. She was right. It did go much higher than this. The chances were great that at the end of these four weeks, the office I had frequented more often than my apartment for the last five years might once again take up its function as the home of the copy machine.  
  
"I hope the man upstairs has a moment between tee times four weeks from tomorrow," I said, glancing down at her. She looked up.  
  
"Mulder, what makes you so certain that they're really shutting us down?"  
  
The elevator chimed as it came to rest on the basement floor. The doors opened before us.  
  
"What makes you so certain they aren't?" I asked.  
  
She stepped out and began to walk slowly down the hall, the echo of her heels reverberating off the walls. I remained in the elevator, holding the door for a moment.  
  
"Scully," I began.   
  
She paused and turned, the dim light off the hallway casting a shadow across her face.  
  
"You will back me up on this, won't you?"  
  
Her expression remained static apart from a tiny smile, almost sympathetic. Her eyes were troubled-more than usual, anyway. Perhaps it was the pain medication, perhaps simple exhaustion.   
  
Scully wasn't the same woman that had taken that bullet for me four weeks before.  
  
She quietly swung her heel, hesitating, and continued into the office. I left the elevator and followed. 


	5. If Only For a Moment

Title: Tonight I've Watched  
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
Genre: MSR/UST, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will   
read this, much less sue me.  
Summary: 5/? (Takes place around 5th or 6th season) A   
bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the   
merging of two separate paths, two separate people   
already walking side by side.  
  
NOTE: This takes place right where Chapter 4 left off...  
OTHER NOTE: The microscope is really in the office in a few of the episodes...look for it.  
  
I entered the office while shedding my coat, pausing behind Scully to stare at the man standing in the back of the room. With his back turned to us, he seemed oblivious to our presence and completely absorbed in something atop the file cabinet.  
  
"Can we help you?" Scully asked with a hint of negativity.  
  
Startled, the man jumped and almost dropped whatever it was he had just lifted from the cabinet. Turning, his face reddened behind his glasses, a sharp contrast to his sandy blonde hair.   
  
"I'm sorry to intrude, really. The office was empty when I came down, and I was about to leave when I noticed this microscope on your shelf."  
  
He paused. I glared at him.  
  
"Where did you get this?" he asked.  
  
I kept glaring. "And you are...," I said, feeling slightly less than exuberant.  
  
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," he replied, crossing the office with the microscope. He extended his hand to Scully and smiled. "Dr. Randall Miller, Pathology."  
  
She forced a smile in return and accepted his hand. "Scully," she said.  
  
"I assumed as much," he grinned, pointing the microscope in the direction of her hair. She nodded slowly and glanced at me. Miller stepped toward me and reached forward.  
  
He was tall, yet slightly shorter than me, and perhaps a little older, though not by much. He wore the standard black coat, badge, and pinstriped tie, his sleeves tightly buttoned and shirt neatly pressed.   
  
"Mulder," I said, shaking his hand. "And it was here when they gave me the office."  
  
He seemed slightly puzzled for a moment, but quickly recovered. "Ah, yes. Well, I don't suppose you wish to sell it then. It's quite beautiful, wouldn't you say? An early Leitz brass and black, three-lens turret still intact. 1921 model, if I'm not mistaken." He continued to gaze at the antique, turning it to inspect every side while adjusting his glasses.  
  
I closed the office door behind me and hung my coat on the hook. Crossing the room to my desk, I lowered myself into the chair and lay back, crossing my ankles on the countertop. Scully glared at me from across the room. Crossing her arms, she interrupted Miller's fascination.  
  
"Is there something you need?" she led, nodding toward a sheet of paper in his other hand.  
  
Sighing, he glanced at the paper, his face lighting up. "Oh, yes, of course." He smiled. "I assume that you've been informed of your temporary reassignment to my division."  
  
She nodded impassively, an obvious display of her unenthusiastic attitude and a sharp contrast to his apparent exhilaration about...everything.  
  
"Well, I thought I'd show you around your new office, maybe help you get settled in before Monday."  
  
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. I spoke up before she could reply.  
  
"She's about to ask if that office comes with a desk," I smirked, staring at her.  
  
She turned and glared at me before responding to Miller's proposal. "Sound's great." She approached the desk to set her stack of papers beside the computer. With a final, unreadable glance in my direction, she allowed the man to guide her out the door of the office.   
  
Miller turned to close the door with a nod in my direction. "Nice meeting you, Agent Mulder."  
  
I mumbled some inaudible reply before the door shut with a click.  
  
The office was silent once again.   
  
I couldn't shake the image of the man guiding my partner out of the door.  
  
She didn't flinch.  
  
  
  
The biting chill of Washington in December whipped across my cheeks as I paced out onto the corner of Pennsylvania and 10th. Shoving one trembling hand into the pocket of my coat and waving the other at the onslaught of rush hour cabs, I stepped onto the curb. I paused for the customary mêlée between the oncoming taxis and slid gratefully into the warm backseat of the victor.   
  
Sighing, I said, "Alexandria, please," to the driver and lay by head back upon the cushion.  
  
Leave it to the FBI to issue fleet sedans with defective transmissions.  
  
I had been greeted at 7:23 that morning by such a new discovery in my car and had been forced to call a cab in order to arrive at work before eight. Pissed as I had entered the office, I left my frustrations at the door upon the familiar sight of Scully behind my desk once again.  
  
So quickly did my exasperation return, as I was stunned so many times that day by her offhand refusals to reply to the simplest of requests, the way she cringed whenever I drew near enough to touch her.   
  
I had presumed that her detached demeanor could only have been a result of her injury or month-long absence until she had allowed that obnoxious man to lead her slowly from the office...  
  
I lifted my head from the cushion and stared absently at the park outside the frosty window. Normally, I wouldn't have expected myself to notice such a trivial thing, much less react to it. But, today hadn't been a normal day, and Scully had been even more distant than normal.   
  
She had been injured, yes. But she had been hurt, too.  
  
The cab passed the park and turned at an intersection, barely avoiding a stray pedestrian in the process. My thoughts drifted to Scully's unclaimed coat still draped across the back of the desk chair when I left. She hadn't returned after leaving with Agent Miller earlier that morning.   
  
The day had passed even more slowly than usual, of course, and I had attempted to occupy my time by finishing the task of cleaning my desk that she had begun. Of course, this had taken up the remainder of the day, and a stack of files still remained to be sorted.   
  
Scully would have been impressed, though. Had she been acting normally.   
  
But something was off...something wasn't right. Given, Scully's dispositions could be unpredictable at times--I had come to accept that fact years ago. And she had never been exceedingly comfortable with my constant invasion of her personal space, but...  
  
I closed my eyes to the onslaught of memories of the day...  
  
The coarse fabric of her coat shying away at my touch.  
  
Her eyes cast downward, not daring to meet my gaze, as she walked slowly into the office to leave me alone, confused in the sudden chill of the elevator.  
  
The way she had almost seemed relieved to be leaving me. Almost as if something had changed while she had been away, some wall had been obstructed between us while my back had been turned, unaware.  
  
That night in the hospital, she had seemed so distant, as if some surreal hand had been keeping her away, safe, from me and from death. Had she grasped that hand as she had held mine so precious few times before?   
  
Was it leading her away from me to protect her? Or was she willfully taking a different path, separate from the one we had shared for so brief a time?  
  
I hesitated as the cab approached the bridge to Alexandria.   
  
I don't want to do this alone. I don't even know if I can.  
  
I spoke before I could convince myself otherwise.  
  
"Actually, ya know, uh, let's go to Georgetown. Let's go to Georgetown."  
  
  
It was already dark when I jogged up the stairs to Scully's apartment building, nodding to her landlord as he held the door for me. The warmth of the white-walled hallway was almost comforting as I passed the golden-numbered doors to reach the stair.   
  
The carpeted passage to her apartment seemed endless; the journey took seconds. My hand instinctively reached to my coat pocket for the key, but I hesitated.  
  
I had let myself into her apartment so many times before without a second thought. So many times before...  
  
But that morning she had pulled away. And that day she hadn't returned.  
  
I would wait outside the apartment. She wouldn't be long.   
  
Placing my hands in my pockets, I rested upon the door and glanced at my watch.   
  
Perhaps I should have brought her something, bought an excuse for my impulsiveness. She had seemed to grow tired of alternating between pizza and Chinese during the past month, though. Besides, bringing her dinner might have been misinterpreted as an indication that I still considered her injured rather than capable of caring for herself.   
  
God, the look she had given me when I had helped her clean the desk that morning...  
  
Perhaps that was precisely the root of her remoteness-my overbearing inclination to protect her. My obsessive tendency to treat her as fragile and incapable of providing for her own needs.   
  
Maybe four weeks alone to reflect on what had gone wrong between us so many years ago, what had led us down this path that had kept us together-though at a comfortable distance, had been enough to realize that she needed more out of the life she had promised herself.  
  
The life she I knew that I couldn't give her.  
  
I waited for hours that night. My thoughts incoherent, suppressed memories resurfacing.  
  
...So you can clear your conscience and your name?! You've been making reports on me since the beginning Scully, taking your little notes!  
  
...Don't ask me for my trust!  
  
My eyes remained focused upon the whitewashed wall before me, unwilling to close despite the looming fatigue. I hadn't slept well in four weeks. I hadn't eaten well in four weeks, either, and my belts had been traded in for dusty ones from college, settled on the floor of my muddled closet.   
  
...Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.  
  
My own personal well being had been given second priority to Scully's recovery. Sleeping brought dreams of her blood spilled across the tiled floor, her sodden blouse drenching my hands.  
  
Didn't she understand? Couldn't she tell? She may be able to function without me, but her security was the only thing that mattered to me now.   
  
...It just doesn't hold the interest for me that it once did.  
  
True, she had deserved a rest from the chaotic lifestyle she had chosen when she decided to follow me. But, maybe Scully had come to realize that she no longer wished to tag along on every eight hundred mile witch-hunt that sparked my curiosity. She had never ceased to exhibit her lack of enthusiasm for my ever so slightly unconventional case selections, but her façade had always been feigned...  
  
Hadn't it?  
  
By nine I had decided to leave, unsure of whether I was about to make a terrible mistake by confronting her about this, about us. I hadn't a clue where she would be, or whom she was with, for that matter, but drowning myself in the six-pack looming in my refrigerator was becoming an increasingly enticing prospect.  
  
I sighed. Increasingly enticing in the respect that the biting silence would become a hum, a ringing, as I'd slowly drink myself to sleep. Alone.   
  
I'd done it before, of course, even after we'd begun working together. The pain of the solitude numbed, if only for the night. The hangover only another excuse to wallow in self-pity.   
  
But I knew Scully had always noticed. She never once said word, acknowledged the fact that she knew what I had done, was ashamed of the way I treated myself. Her sad glances were enough to keep nights such as those less and less frequent, though.  
  
Because the longer we were together, the closer we became, and the miserable nights alone had been replaced by cross-country car rides and all-night debates about science and the Truth, fate and free will, and the mathematics of baseball...  
  
I thought I had been content to stand alone until she had offered to walk beside me.   
  
And now the hole that she had filled in my pitiful existence was empty once again.  
  
I hadn't realized that my eyes had closed until Scully, paused at the end of the hall, had called my name.  
  
"Mulder?"  
  
I started forward, lifting myself from the wall as I turned to face her. She approached cautiously, puzzled.  
  
"Is something wrong?"  
  
I laughed, rubbing my eyes and shaking my head.   
  
"No, no. Sorry, I must have fallen asleep," I lied, acutely aware that the time was approximately 9:13 and that I had remained more or less conscious at her door for the past three hours. She was glaring wearily at me, awaiting an explanation of my presence.   
  
"Mulder, how long have you been here?" she asked, reaching for her keys as I moved away from the doorknob.   
  
"Not long."  
  
Scully looked up and met my eyes, her gaze continuing down to my coat and tie. She sighed and stepped into the apartment. I hesitated.  
  
Her confusion was obvious. She looked at me again and asked, "Really, Mulder, is there a reason you're here? And, are you coming in?"  
  
I nodded and followed her through the doorway, shedding my coat as she crossed the front room to hang her own in the bedroom closet. I glanced around the apartment for a moment, taking in everything that was so...Scully. Perfectly spotless, but warm and almost welcoming.   
  
I draped my coat across the couch, careful not to disturb an opened medical journal posed on its arm. I heard her reenter the room and looked up. Her jacket removed, she was wearing a light blue blouse, cross neatly resting on the base of her neck. Eyeing me, she stopped and crossed her arms, indicating that the time had arrived for me to explain why I had come.  
  
I paused.  
  
"Hey, Scully, how about those Knicks, huh?"  
  
She didn't respond, but lifted her eyebrows and sighed. I cracked a smile and folded my own arms, turning to lean against the couch beside me.  
  
She continued to wait silently for a moment before replying.  
  
"Mulder, if this is about plotting dissent against these "higher authorities", I refuse to-,"  
  
She paused, reading the slight turn of my head as an assurance of the negative.   
  
"They're not my primary concern, for the moment," I said, glaring at her as she stared defiantly at me, her hands now resting upon her hips. This silence continued for a moment before she sighed once more and crossed the room into the kitchen.   
  
I watched as she poured two cups of water into the coffee maker and flipped the switch. Her expression, typically perturbed and exasperated in a situation such as this, was almost...resigned, or even tired. As if my presence had become stale to the extent that she barely noticed the little things that used to aggravate her to no end.   
  
Grabbing two mugs and pouring a drop of cream into one, she emptied the coffee pot and turned it off. Padding softly across the carpeted floor, she handed me one and turned, making her way around to the couch.  
  
"So, this is about my returning to work early, then," she said exasperatedly as she placed her coffee on the table and rested her elbows on her knees. I moved to take a seat beside her, placing my mug upon the table and lying against the back of the couch.  
  
I crossed my arms and breathed deeply once.  
  
"Not so much as the fact that you barely returned at all."  
  
She made no response, recognizing the implications of my words. Our eyes locked for a moment before she leaned back, leaving her coffee for the moment.  
  
"What exactly are you getting at, Mulder?"  
  
I sighed and turned away, scanning the room as I formulated a response, praying for the words that would answer a question so pivotal to the events of years to come.   
  
I'm trying to say that I want to know what I've done wrong.  
  
I'm trying to say that I won't let this ruin us.  
  
But, more than anything, I'm trying to say that there comes a time when two paths must eventually merge, whether to cross a river together or to meet for only a moment before continuing along two separate courses.  
  
That time is now.  
  
"Scully, I won't fight this alone."  
  
I met her eyes, unwilling to let her turn away.   
  
God, I needed her to say it. You won't be, Mulder. Of course not.  
  
She kept her gaze locked with mine, her troubled eyes pleading. I wasn't about to allow her to speak the words I knew she had prepared, to utter those things that would send me back to sleepless nights. I wasn't about to walk through that door and leave behind the thing for which I had fought harder than ever before.   
  
She began to turn her head away as her eyes began to shimmer, and I reached forward to gently nudge her chin in my direction, forcing her to meet my eyes.  
  
The shimmer became a glaze, and she turned her cheek into my hand.  
  
"Mulder..." she began, her voice strained and saddened.  
  
Before I had begun to realize it, my head began to turn slowly back and forth.   
  
Don't say it Scully.  
  
God, don't say it.  
  
The glaze formed a tear that rested silently within her eye.  
  
Her blood was spilling between my fingers, spreading like fire across the pale blue of her blouse. Between my fingers as I helplessly, hopelessly fought to keep her with me.   
  
"Mulder, I..." she tried, but couldn't bring herself to speak.  
  
My head continued to shake, the room blurring as I began to feel the creeping heat of panic.  
  
Scully, don't say it. I can't do this. Don't make me do this...  
  
"I can't, Mulder," she whispered, the words barely audible above the deafening silence of the apartment.   
  
...Salt Lake City Utah. Transfer effective immediately.  
  
...You don't need me, Mulder. You never have.  
  
I had always known that this wouldn't last forever, that this couldn't last forever. But the last time I began this, she had stayed. She had walked away and turned around, her glassy eyes pleading for a reason to remain beside me as she had for so long a time.  
  
If only for a moment...  
  
I stroked her cheek softly, but her tear refused to fall.   
  
Forgive me, Scully, but I've always known that it would come to this.  
  
I silently drew closer to her, searching her face, pleading.  
  
If only for a moment...  
  
I paused quietly, gathering the strength I needed to break this bond we had wordlessly established the moment we met.  
  
The tear fell, and Scully kept my gaze for an instant-an instant irrevocable and binding, one destined to haunt my memories for solitary days to follow.  
  
Forgive me, Mulder.  
  
She turned away as I brushed her cheek, pulling her face from my palm. She rose, betrayed, and met my eyes, asking me to leave.  
  
I swallowed and leaned forward, closing my eyes and resting my face in my folded palms, sighing.   
  
Maybe in this life, she needed more than I could give.  
  
I stood and grabbed my coat, walking briskly to the door. I turned slowly as I touched the handle, meeting her wounded gaze.   
  
The silence was unbearable, but the words refused to come.  
  
I quietly opened the door before me and left her still in the apartment.  
  
Alone.  
  
  
  
  
END Ch. 5 


	6. Long Forgotten

Title: Tonight I've Watched  
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
Genre: MSR/UST, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will   
read this, much less sue me.  
Summary: 6/? (Takes place around 5th or 6th season) A   
bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the   
merging of two separate paths, two separate people   
already walking side by side.  
  
The office, of course, was empty when I arrived. The stillness was typical for that early an hour, and I had anticipated nothing besides. But the bittersweet moments of solitude such as these that had wrested their way into my early morning routine over the years had become more than stale during the past month.  
  
I refused to believe that she wasn't coming back.  
  
The flooded light from the hallway pierced the darkness of the room, casting shadows behind the neatly straightened stacks of files and pencils, trophies and pictures adorning the cabinets.   
  
The dust drifted above the desk and floated, posed. Silent. Still. I closed my eyes.  
  
She appeared behind me and edged her way into the office. Quickly laying her briefcase upon the desk, she yanked off her coat and smiled, tossing it into the chair. Her dark suit was pulled sharply across her poised shoulders, her softly curved hair neatly tucked behind her ears.   
  
"So, Mulder, where do we start?"  
  
I opened my eyes to the darkness of the barren office, the image of my absent partner drifting slowly as the dust settled. Silence, and nothing more.  
  
I instinctively flipped on the light and carried the empty file box to the desk. Its impeccability would go unnoticed, I mused. She had already gathered what few things she kept in the office and probably wouldn't return.   
  
I began to place the stack of files on my desk into the box and continued to the drawers. Stapler, pens, and paper clips among random newspaper clippings and perfectly wholesome videos.   
  
My things, my desk, my posters and files, but she was here-everywhere.  
  
I had kept the last post-it she had left on the computer late one night still in place.   
  
"Mulder-  
GO HOME."  
  
I smiled and recalled that I hadn't.  
  
Her fingernail file in the top drawer, her extra pair of latex gloves shoved behind some files on the cabinet, the new trashcan she had quietly brought the day after I had destroyed the last one in frustration over the Ronnie Strickland affair.  
  
I stood and turned to face the picture-flooded wall to my back. Pausing for a moment before choosing the ones to take with me, my eyes fell upon a small newspaper clipping tucked quietly between two crop-circle photographs.  
  
I hadn't bothered to attach the article, as, it was, of course, inaccurate, but the accompanying picture remained the only one of Scully I realized I had in this office.  
  
Leaning against a squad car and flipping through a case file with her hair falling before her face, she was, per usual, expressionless. But I stood before her, my jacket off and sleeves rolled, close enough to keep our conversation at a whisper despite the confusion surrounding us.  
  
She didn't seem to be speaking, but her eyes were locked with mine.  
  
The case was irrelevant, long forgotten and filed away. But the fact remained that this moment captured, this typical point in time so frequent in days past, served as my only visual reminder of the way we used to be.  
  
The way I used to be able to speak to her across a crowded room without a word, to argue with her at a whisper six inches apart and leave the matter unresolved, but still place my hand upon her back and lead her from the room as if nothing had happened.  
  
The way she used to struggle to keep a smile from her face when I'd make a wisecrack any normal person would have considered harassment, or lock the office door behind her so that I wouldn't have to ask, speaking the words aloud that revealed the unremitting paranoia she knew I couldn't escape.  
  
The little things. The constants in this forever dynamic existence we had shared, had come to rely on.  
  
These I had fought for more than once. And I had no intention of tiring in my resolve to gain them once again.  
  
I pulled out the tack and dropped the picture in the remaining space beside the files. Grabbing the box by the handles, I lifted it from the desk.   
  
As I paused for a moment before heading for the door, my eyes drifted to the unassuming nameplate resting silently beside the lamp.   
  
The carved white letters of my name glared back at me indignantly, their stature slight but their connotation untold.  
  
This is Fox Mulder's office. Fox Mulder's desk and Fox Mulder's files.   
  
Fox Mulder began this search on a day too far distant to be remembered, a journey begun in solitude along a path meant for one. One man resolute in his solitary being, unwilling to share the burden, the responsibility, and the pain of his pursuit.  
  
She hadn't been placed here by choice, but she had chosen to remain. And so she walked beside me, followed me and bore the sorrow and the hurting I hadn't warned her were only certain.  
  
She doubted, and I made her believe.  
  
She saw my weakness, but I turned away.  
  
She had taken up my cross, though I refused to accept hers.  
  
And now the suppression of these realities, the mutual refusal to speak aloud of the painful truths we both had endured had come to this.  
  
This moment. This reality. This truth.  
  
Burning, heat rose within me, spreading from my chest to the tired muscles of my arms and the sweating tips of my fingers.  
  
I dropped the box back upon the desk and stared at the cruel letters of my name, the pitiful plate I had refused to move after so many years.  
  
I had forced her to stand behind and bear the pain in silence. I had let them take her and strip her of her identity and her resolve, of her health and her beliefs while I looked the other way. She had remained in the shadow of my grief, had suffered this silence out of commitment and a sense of obligation that had already begun to fade.  
  
And the light that had been Scully had suddenly left me in the darkness of this suffering, this guilt.  
  
Alone.  
  
I grabbed the nameplate without a second's hesitation, the cool of the metal yielding to the heat of my palms. Running my fingers gently over the carving of the letters for a moment, I slowly closed my eyes.  
  
Silence.  
  
With a strength I had never possessed and an anger I had never allowed to surface, I turned and hurled the nameplate at the wall behind me, refusing to flinch as it smashed the glass of the bookcase and sent shards falling to the floor below.  
  
The office was quiet for a moment longer, and I stared at the reflection of the lamp's light upon the broken glass. I reached for the box and lifted it from the desk once again.   
  
When I turned, she was standing in the doorway silently, her face expressionless.  
  
Her eyes were tired, resigned, and they said not a word as they had so many times before.   
  
This place had once been ours, alone for days and months and years. And I needed her to walk into the office as if nothing had changed. I needed her to stay, but I hadn't the strength to tell her of my weakness. Somehow, I needed her to feel the pain I felt, to see that I couldn't carry this burden alone, but the words wouldn't come.   
  
So I ignored the tears I saw forming in her eyes and shouldered the pain I knew I would bear in solitude in the days to come as I headed for the door and cast my eyes upon the ground. She looked down, moved silently away, and allowed me to pass.  
  
The echo of my steps upon the chill of the hall broke the silence, but I refused to turn and watch her cry in the doorway.   
  
I knew my way through the darkness and tread mechanically to the elevator, ignoring the throbbing in my ears and tightness in my throat. Blood trickled quietly down my fingers, but I couldn't feel the sting of the broken glass that had flown into my hand and now rested atop the files in the box I held.  
  
The doors opened and I shivered unwillingly as I stepped inside.   
  
I found myself alone and rested against the wall of the elevator, sinking slowly to the ground. Staring as the blood dripped from the hand I clutched before me, I resigned to the rising swell within my throat and quietly allowed the tears to fall.  
END CH 6 


	7. Reticence

Title: Tonight I've Watched  
  
Author: Emily Todd Carter  
  
Genre: MSR/UST, Angst  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: It's not like anyone who matters will read this, much less sue me.  
  
Spoilers: Sleepless, FTF  
  
Summary: 7/? A bullet taken one chilly November evening leads to the merging of two separate paths, two separate people already walking side by side.  
  
Chapter Seven...Reticence  
  
His passion breeds from eternal isolation.  
  
The emptiness.   
  
He loathes the solitude, abhors the silence of his existence.  
  
The rage.  
  
Seething, seeping from his thoughts, incarnate in the very essence of his persona. But the realm of his seclusion is his own, forced upon him by society, past abuse, an aberration of mind or body...  
  
Pale coloring, disheveled façade, possible speech impediment...  
  
His victims are immaculate, flawless. The girls are reticent by nature, reserved.  
  
I hesitated, the dulled tip of my pencil lingering above the legal pad. The pages quivered slightly as the wind lifted them from below.  
  
He avoids social situations, his desire ironically exemplified in his evasion. Any efforts to establish binding relationships...  
  
I paused again. Cracking the sunflower seed, now bland and almost limp, between my teeth, I turned my head to add the shell to the pile on the grass. The salt lingered slightly at the back of my throat. I grabbed another from the bag beside me and laid the pad and pencil down upon the bench.  
  
Leaning back, I stretched my arms behind me and rested my hands on the back of my head.  
  
I closed my eyes to the customary stillness of Hoover courtyard. The breeze was welcome, inviting. It seemed almost intrusive, though, an imposter to the artificial air of the place. The trees arranged uniformly beside shrubs of uniform height. Synthetic grass lining impeccably swept sidewalks. Grimaced men pacing at harmonized speed, wearing standardized attire.  
  
The birds avoid this place, its synthetic ambiance and government-issue pretense.  
  
Thus the stillness. My own escape.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
I sighed, opening my eyes reluctantly.  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be fetching someone's coffee, Agent Sanders?"  
  
The recently-promoted intern clenched his jaw. Irritably, he held forth the folded paper he had been sent to deliver.  
  
"Just arrived from Quantico."  
  
I unfolded the paper and scanned its contents. "Damn it..."  
  
Refolding the sheet, I grabbed the sunflower seeds and legal pad and rose quickly from the bench. I paused for a moment, spitting a seed casually close to his polished Rockports. Stepping around Agent Sanders, I headed quietly along the sidewalk for the entrance.  
  
With eyes closed, I could sense the place.  
  
The elevator softly descended, slowing to a halt, and the chill had already begun to make itself known.  
  
A rustling in the bushes. Footsteps at the doorway. A presence in the room.  
  
The doors opened silently, and I left the empty elevator without a second glance.   
  
Heads turned casually as I entered the hush of the dimly lit hallway. Their looks were hardened, though curious, but defensive as well. I was a solitary suit in a sea of paled blue scrubs, but the simple fact that I was alive posed the most obvious deviation from standard visitors to this place.  
  
I lowered my gaze and continued, returning their detached demeanor. My footsteps echoed through the metallic hallway, and each doctor turned from his chart, each student's pencil paused on its clipboard. I stepped quickly around an oncoming cart of shiny utensils, their edges clashing faintly with each turn of the wheel, as if trembling, anxious to be wielded.   
  
The steel doors of the autopsy bay were closed behind me, sweeping with them a rush of air. The room was dark, chillingly silent. Its whitewashed walls were spotless, ironic.   
  
She stood motionless behind the steel table in the center of the room.  
  
"Mulder."  
  
I swallowed slowly. The bay's only light shed a subtle glow upon the crest of her hair, her forehead tilted slightly forward.   
  
"Scully," I acknowledged, nodding. She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter behind her. I glanced quickly at the tray of scalpels, probes, and forceps she had already assembled.   
  
The hanging scale cast a shadow on her face, but the dimness couldn't hide the purpose in her eyes. Her scrubs were bright-deep crimson, no doubt, a striking contrast to the wisp of hair fallen from her ponytail. I strained my eyes slightly, casually.  
  
I've never truly seen the color of her hair.  
  
She looked away and sighed softly, shivering in the cold air.   
  
Or perhaps the thought of the child soon to pass motionless through the steel doors behind me, with pallid skin as cold as the life it once enfolded, had breached those weathered walls of the woman I once knew.  
  
The room was silent for a moment as we both debated over what to say, if even to speak at all. Two weeks, and we hadn't the words or the will to voice the gnawing guilt, fear, and anger of walking alone.  
  
So I lifted my eyes from the floor, waiting patiently for her gaze to meet my own.  
  
And the words were there, perched expectantly at the back of my throat, and I opened my mouth to breach the deafening silence of the room, but the steel doors whined noisily instead.   
  
Voices muted by the heavy glass crescendoed sharply as I glanced at the bay entrance.   
  
"From Houston? That's impossible."  
  
"It doesn't fit the profile."  
  
"Nothing seems to fit the profile anymore, Jackson."  
  
Presently, I was pushed aside by an anxious technician and forced to retreat to a corner of the room as a deluge of suits and scrubs invaded the autopsy bay. The wheels of the gurney whined with each rotation as it traveled slowly to position beneath the hanging scale.  
  
Her voice rose quickly before I saw her insinuate herself into the throng of agents. I lifted my eyebrows to hide the chuckle as she appeared beside the autopsy table.   
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
They paused mid-sentence and glanced down at her.  
  
"This area's restricted."  
  
No one spoke, and the younger agents turned to leave. The elder remained, glaring haughtily at the tiny red set of scrubs ordering them from the autopsy bay. Scully raised her eyebrows expectantly, advising them to follow.  
  
One glanced at the body for a moment and seemed perched to reply. But I cleared my throat quietly, and his eyes shot across the room.  
  
"So, what the hell is he doing here?"  
  
Scully glanced quickly at me as I met his glare. Her eyes fell to the autopsy table, and I rose from the counter.   
  
"I was just on my way out, Agent Perry," I said, stepping around the technicians preparing the camera for the external exam. Two trial flashes and my hand was on the steel door, holding it silently for the petulant agents to follow.  
  
Her hands were steady, movements calculated and precise. She carefully lifted the sheet from the body, folding it back just below the shoulders and pausing for a moment. I stared through my reflection in the glass as she began to dictate into the recorder, her words echoing though the speaker in the observing room.  
  
My mind was lost in the conviction of her voice, in the self-effacing ambiance of her demeanor, in the subtle glow of the lamp upon her shoulders.  
  
November, 1994. I had sauntered into the autopsy bay, Krycek at my heels, and she had turned. And she had reflected my smile as I pulled her aside and spoke in our tacit "George Hale" patois.  
  
A month later, she was gone.  
  
It was three a.m., and she hadn't slept. She knew I was drunk, and she questioned my motives, but she quietly dressed and demanded the keys. She had stared, incredulous, at the fireman's body, as I nodded and turned to leave the morgue.   
  
She hadn't seen me as I'd paused before closing the door, watching, desperate, her words lingering in my memory.  
  
"Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart's still in it, too."  
  
The door to the observation room opened softly behind me, and the hum of voices rose slightly to a murmur. The agents beside me turned.  
  
I remained silent throughout the handshakes, listening, and sighing as the room slowly emptied.  
  
His reflection appeared beside mine, the wire-rimmed glasses and spotless white lab coat. He was looking past me, watching Scully with an impassive demeanor and nodding slightly at the words of her dictation. He was confident-in her and in himself, with his shoulders back and the trace of a smile in his expression.  
  
"Did you catch that, Agent Mulder?"  
  
I turned my head to face him. He nodded his head in Scully's direction.  
  
"Possible fracture of the hyoid."  
  
I lifted my eyebrows, awaiting an explanation.  
  
"She's not like the others."   
  
I turned back and stared quietly through the glass.  
  
"Hyoid fracture, scleral and conjunctival petechiae, facial cyanosis...This one wasn't smothered, Agent Mulder."  
  
I made no response, but nodded silently. Scully had turned, scalpel poised, somehow aware of his arrival. Her eyes shifted from me to him, and she reached to pull the surgical mask from her face, tucking the stray wisp of hair behind her ear.  
  
He flipped a switch on the wall beside the glass and spoke.  
  
"Erythematous marks?"  
  
"Mostly anterior contusions."  
  
"Confluent across the midline?"  
  
She paused. Leaning forward, she brushed away the child's hair and glanced at the base of her neck. Standing, she turned to face the glass. "Yeah," she murmured, and turned back to the body.   
  
"She was strangled, Randall."  
  
He nodded, crossing his arms upon his chest and raising his eyebrows at me. I clenched my jaw and watched as Scully began the y-incision. The internal exam passed in silence, the subdued monotone of her dictation the only sound in the observing room.   
  
She laid her scalpel and forceps on the table and reached for the Stryker. Miller casually flipped off the internal microphone.  
  
"She's a fine doctor," he murmured.  
  
I stared fixedly through the glass. "She's had experience."  
  
He nodded. "I can tell."  
  
The buzz of the Stryker filled the room, and he turned off the speaker. Silence, again, and then he spoke.  
  
"She speaks highly of you, Agent Mulder. When she speaks at all."  
  
I made no response.  
  
"How long have you been together?"  
  
I started, glancing quickly at him.  
  
"As partners, I mean," he said, looking back at her.  
  
My eyes didn't leave his. Perhaps I was paranoid, unconsciously aware, but he seemed to be prying. "Almost six years." He shifted uncomfortably under my glare.  
  
She'd called him Randall.  
  
"But she hasn't always been this distant.  
  
Has she?"  
  
I stared at him for a moment longer, resolving that I very much, in fact, disliked the man. Unfolding my arms, I turned for the door. As my hand rested upon the handle, he spoke again.  
  
"What happened, Agent Mulder?"  
  
He still faced the glass, but our eyes met in the reflection.  
  
I started to reply, but he stopped me, tilting his forehead towards the glass.  
  
She had stopped to watch me leave, but my eyes met hers and she looked away.   
  
"I only wish I knew," I whispered.  
  
I slipped through the door and into the hallway, leaving him staring silently through the window.  
  
END Ch. 7  
  
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